Page 14 of The Fake Out

Right. Like I believed that.

“Don’t forget Mom has that appointment this afternoon,” I shouted, slathering on SPF moisturizer. Curse of the redhead—the pale, freckled skin of my people was prone to baking in the sun.

Her head appeared around the shower curtain. She saluted me. “Yes, ma’am. I’m on it. Don’t worry about a thing.”

“You don’t have to be so sarcastic about it,” I snapped and pulled my hair into a quick ponytail.

“Well, you don’t have to be so bitchy about it.”

I narrowed my eyes. Wisely, her head disappeared behind the shower curtain.

When I got to work, the mail was already waiting. To keep Mama from dealing with the stress, I’d had all the bills sent here so she wouldn’t see them. I cringed at the latest bill from Mama’s neurologist, the amount of which was enough to weigh my soul down.

Stomach twisting, I made a mental note to call and make payment arrangements. I already had similar arrangements with four other medical establishments. At this rate, I would be the only eighty-year-old woman working at Chicky’s. “Hold my dentures” didn’t seem like a great way to make tips either.

Last night, I’d laid in bed long after Iris got home and fretted over how I was going to make this all work. It was when I did my best planning. At night, when I should be sleeping. I liked plans. I liked to know what was going to happen or what I needed to do or how I was going to get there. And I didn’t like to veer from my plans. They were a lifeline to me. Without them, everything felt like chaos.

At the library, I booted up the computers and unlocked the door at 9:30 a.m. on the dot. There was no great rush of patrons but at eleven, the little ones started arriving with their parents in tow for story time.

“Mae-Mae.” A little girl of four with dark hair threw herself at my legs and hugged me.

“Lily, how are you, my friend?”

She seemed to contemplate her answer. “It’s been a good day so far. I got pancakes for breakfast.”

“Pancakes are the perfect way to start the day.” I directed her to the table where I’d laid out coloring pages and crayons. “Why don’t you go color? We’ll start story time soon.”

Her mom, Tonya, gave me a weary smile as she bounced a sleeping infant in the sling on her chest.

“How’s the little one?” I asked, gazing at the tiny six-week-old peeking out. My chest ached at the sight of the downy blond cap of hair and rosebud mouth. One of these days, I wanted one of those. I just wasn’t sure I wanted the man that I’d need to get one.

“I’m exhausted. So, so tired,” she said, looking on the edge of tears. She forced a smile. “I mean, it’s great.”

Or I could just watch babies from afar. Be the cool aunt. Did vampires reproduce? I’d have to ask Iris.

I escorted Tonya to the rocking chair I kept for just such visitors. She sat down with a sigh. At 11:30 on the dot, I clapped my hands and the kids raced to the magic reading carpet.

We started with a rousing rendition of “Wheels On The Bus” before moving on to “Five Little Speckled Frogs.” It was during the “Name Game Song” I noticed the new presence in the room: Chris Sterns.

I stumbled over little MacKenzie’s name when I saw him take a tiny kid-sized chair, plunk it behind the children and take a seat. He looked ridiculous, his knees practically touching his chin. I frowned; he grinned.

A few of the moms glanced over at him, probably attracted by the godlike pheromones he naturally secreted. Not that I had noticed. One gasped and slapped the woman next to her. Another ripped out the hair tie securing her messy bun, ran her fingers through her hair and rummaged through her purse to find a tube of lipstick, all while bouncing a baby on her knee.

I cleared my throat and moved on to the final song in our repertoire, “Old MacDonald Had A Farm.” The kids wiggled with excitement as I pulled a small box from under my chair.

“Old MacDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O,” they sang cheerfully off-key. “And on that farm, he had a…”

They bounced with anticipation as I reached inside the box and brought out a puppet at random.

“CAT!” the kids screamed. “With a meow, meow here, and a meow, meow there…”

When we finished that verse, I tossed the puppet to a small boy with bright-red hair in the front row. He squeezed it to his chest like it was the best gift he’d ever received. His little face melted some of my bad mood.

The second verse started without pause except now a warm baritone joined in from the back. Chris grinned when I glanced his way, just as excited as the kids when the next puppet I drew was a horse. On the final verse, I tossed out the last animal to a little girl in the front row and situated myself to read our book.

“Where’s my aminal?” Lily said, her eyes welling with tears. “I didn’t get an aminal.”

“Oh, honey,” I said. “I’m so sorry. It looks like we ran out.”